Participant Observation 1

Bus ride from Pilley Polley to Hyderabad

When we left the farmhouse in the little village of Pilley Polley on Saturday afternoon we were all tired and exhausted. Seeing the countryside I thought was a great learning experience, but we were all ready to go back to the guesthouse with air-conditioned rooms and cold showers. Before we would be able to enjoy these comforts, we had to endure the four and half hour-long bus ride through the villages. This turned out to be a much more interesting and enjoyable experience than I had anticipated.
We waited for the bus outside the farmhouse for about ten minutes until we saw a bus driving by on a road other than the one we were standing at. We all said good-bye quickly and started running like crazy to catch the bus. When we arrived we were of course stared at and I was aware that many people on that bus had probably never seen a “non-Indian” person, let alone a group of young, touristy-looking college kids running down the small road of Pilley Polley.
Most of the people on the bus looked poor and I could see they were tired and exhausted form working all day in the hot sun. The bus was very old, rusty and had a bluish/grayish color on the outside. The bus had no doors and I found this very odd (but later found out that the bus does not always come to a complete stop when people get on or off the bus, so doors would complicate this). The bus does not have air conditioning so consequently it was very hot. The bus smelled of sweat and dust. We all sat down in the back without thinking about it, until the conductor came up to us, waving his arms, saying something we did not understand over and over. It wasn’t until then that I remembered a former SIP-student telling me to never sit in the back of the bus, since the women have a designated area in the front. We all moved to the front and I made sure to find a window seat in order to get some air and also to be able to take pictures. I am tired sweaty and hot. My stomach also feels funny, maybe from something I ate at the farmhouse.
As the bus slowly starts moving, I can hear the tires screeching and I can feel how bumpy and uneven the gravel road really is. I can see the old man in the back watching us from the corner of my eyes. We start our slow drive towards Hyderabad on a tiny road, which has piles of rocks and dirt piled on each side of the road and forces the bus to move in a zigzag motion. I lean forward because my back is already sweaty and my shirt is sticking to my back. The breeze on my face feels good and I watch the landscape. The landscape is beautiful. Everything is so green and colorful.
I see an old man plowing the field with an ox and a little wooden cart. His back is bend and he is wearing nothing but a piece of fabric wrapped around his waist. It takes me a few minutes to process this and realize that this is LIFE for many Indians living in rural India. I try to imagine what life would be like living in the village. The bus is fairly empty; there are only about five to ten other people on the bus. As we reach the first small village I smell cows and rotten fruits. I see small children sitting in piles of dirt and women kneeling on the ground washing clothes. An old lady enters the bus, one of her eyes is blind and looks very glossy, and she cannot walk very well. I am getting tired and lean back.
I see many women enter the bus, most of them carrying little children. The women are all wearing traditional clothes and many of them have flowers in their hair. Christine sits in the chair on the left of Abbie and me. A woman holding a little girl with a big Bindhi and short, black, curly hair sits down next to her. The woman is wearing a pink Sari and has white flowers attached to her braided hair. I watch Christine with her “western” clothes and her iPod plugged into her ears and the Indian woman in her traditional clothes next to her. The first thing that comes to mind is “clash of cultures.” What a funny image to see these two different people sitting next to each other on a small bus driving through some small Indian village.
I watch the little girl as she stares at me without even blinking. Children are so curious and not ashamed to do what they feel like doing. They do not have any rights and wrongs, dos and don’ts embedded into their minds yet. I enjoy watching the girl as she continues to stare at me with big, brown eyes. I realize that all the children are quiet on the bus, nobody is crying or screaming. Most of the children are even sleeping as their heads are bouncing all over the place with the motions of the bus. I think about bus rides in the States, there are children crying and wining about everything. I wonder if the children here are just used to the conditions. The road is so narrow that every time there is oncoming traffic, the bus gets so close to the trees on the side that leaves fly in through the open windows.
After an hour or so I realize that I have become pretty used to the heat and I realize that I don’t even notice the smell of sweat and dust anymore. By we have passed a few small villages and the bus is cramped. There are old men, women carrying things on their heads and school children. We pass a school and I see three little girls in the yard looking at me. I wave at them and they giggle shyly and wave back. They smile and laugh and this makes me smile and laugh. Again, I think about how unconfined children are and how carefree (well, unfortunately not all children get that luxury, but children always find a way to be children, or at least they should).
All of the sudden we hear a loud noise and it feels as if the bus hit a big bump. I get kind of worried right away and wonder whether we lost part of the motor or if we ran over something. The bus stops and the bus driver get out to check on things. When he gets back into the bus and starts driving after a few minutes, I assume everything is ok. I keep watching the people getting on and off the bus and decide that I really like the colors of the clothes. Women here wear very bright, colorful and happy colors and it makes me smile. I realize we are approaching the outskirts of the city and I notice how the kinds of people on the bus slowly change. I see IT workers and businessmen with small cell phones enter the bus and sit among the farmers of the villages. I am enjoying watching this “contrast.”After four and a half hours of driving, and switching buses once, we arrive at the guesthouse, exhausted, tired, hungry and thirsty. Without a word, everyone heads to his or her air-conditioned rooms.